


Ignite

by Serena_Rose



Category: The Good Place (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Demon Sex, Established Chidi x Simone, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Romance, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Hellstrop, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, No Established Cheleanor, Recovery, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:08:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27611855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serena_Rose/pseuds/Serena_Rose
Summary: Eleanor runs into some trouble while out at a bar with some demons. When Michael finds her, she's clearly been through the worst that Hell has to offer.
Relationships: Michael (The Good Place)/Eleanor Shellstrop
Comments: 19
Kudos: 30





	1. A Night On The Town

**Author's Note:**

> Whump / caretaker fic that I'm gonna try to pace myself on rather than fitting into one exhausting one shot like I've done lately. This won't be another slow-burn like NPL but I'm gonna see where it takes me.

“What’s the name again?”

“Jezebel’s.”

“Never heard of it. Must be new.”

Eleanor rolls her eyes; “Right, I can really imagine you knowing all the names of the best nightclubs in this place. We all know what a party animal you were.”

She can hear Michael’s affronted gasp down the phone.

It’s one of those old candle-stick style telephones, mounted on the wall in the foyer. It still bemused Eleanor how backwards the time era of Hell seemed to be frozen in, refusing to budge past the end of WWII. Maybe that had been the most amusing period in history, with the huge influx of people this place received, and they decided to stick with it. No one has a cell unless they’re a Bad Janet, the one type of being in this dimension that wouldn’t have use for a smart-device other than to add to their rude aesthetic.

She’s happy to tolerate riding the tediously long trains between locations and walk through the smoggy, industrial-style streets while they spend however long it’s going to take them continuing to fix up the Bad Place for the new afterlife system. That is she’s happy so long as her own apartment she’s been gifted can be as modern or even futuristic as she pleases so she has her lazy comfort waiting for her at the end of another day overseeing new tests and teaching disgruntled demons. She might not have Janet, or any Janet for that matter, around at her beck and call like in the neighbourhood, but she at least has a best friend happy to design and furnish her temporary residence with everything she could desire.

The other aspect of her normal life she keeps is her own clothes. She already spent three hundred years having to wear cardigans and plaid shirts that belonged to a fictional person, she wasn’t going to be forced to wear another war-time dress or glasses, even if she knows she could pull it off.

“In my defence, I was unaware there were secret underground demon nightclubs!” Michael says on the other end of the phone as she stands in the entrance of Jezebel’s bar; “I just believed the bosses when they said we weren’t allowed to socialise outside of work…Not my fault no one ever invited me to one.”

“Well, I invited you tonight, bud. They’re not so secret anymore.” She has to raise her voice a little as someone passes through the door to the bar and the loud music pumps its way through.

Thank god the playlist here was at least only dated to the eighties, even if most of the songs are combined with Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer.

“I guess with most demons out of work and waiting to be reassigned, Shawn had to give them something to amuse themselves.”

Eleanor smooths down her red dress, leaning against the wall.

“Offer is still open, man. You were my first pick who I wanted to come hang out with me tonight.”

“Your first pick?” Michael sounds sceptical. He knows her too well.

She smirks to herself; “Well….after Tahani turned me down because she needed a ‘night spa’, or whatever.”

“…And?”

“And…after Chidi and Simone said they were going to see Pirates of the Caribbean 7 with Janet and Jason.” She sighs with a twinge of guilt; “Right after they let me down, you were so my first pick.”

“I’m flattered.” Eleanor hears him tut. It wasn’t as if she wasn’t going to ring him as well…eventually.

“So…will you come?”

There’s a pause on the other end. The demon who had come out earlier, one in the skin suit of a tall guy with dark hair and smouldering brown eyes, turns to look at her, flashing a smile and raising his drink to her. She bites her lip, letting him have a little teasing glance before she turns to the side.

“I thought you went there with Vicky?”

“Yeah and the bitch decided to bail on me, for no reason.” Eleanor complains, “I thought we were having a good time as well, laughing about old times, her favorite moments torturing me, blah blah, giving me the gossip on what’s happening at HQ…Then she says she needs to go outside to powder her scales, which I’m just gonna assume is demon slang, but that was about half an hour ago and the bouncer dude said she headed home! I guess you really can’t trust a demon to become your friend.”

Michael clears his throat.

“Oh…right.” Eleanor cringes at her mistake there; “Well, just goes to show how I don’t think of you as a demon, doesn’t it? Different standard for an honorary human.”

“Nice save.” He praises her; “Look, I’ve got a lot of paperwork to get done or I would…If you get really bored, why don’t you come to my office? We can have a slumber party, like old times.”

She must be getting old, three hundred years plus of exhaustion, for a quiet night of eating pizza and watching movies with Michael to sound more appealing than being in a bar with no one she knew, surrounded by strange demons, the couple of drinks she’d had with Vicky at the bar not having done a decent job of getting her drunk enough to be into the music and dancing as her inner Arizona party girl thirsted for. It felt like centuries since she’d last been to a bar and got drunk off her ass. Even if hangovers were back to being normal in this place, she’d take it for a good night out.

It just didn’t seem to feel all that fun without any of her friends. They were no longer living almost in each other’s as they once had, with their own apartments in different districts of the Bad Place, each with their own area to work on – which had been Eleanor’s plan. Split them up in the hopes of it all moving along a lot quicker. She was right in assuming that Chidi and Simone wanted to spend as much time together now the experiment was over. It felt like a whole lifetime had passed since she got over her crush on the best nerd and was happy to see two of her friends settled and happy (but, damn, confident Chidi could get it even more than regular Chidi! Simone was a lucky bitch…Then again, so was Chidi). Eleanor tried to hang out with Janet, Jason and Tahani as much as possible, meeting up for lunch with the last one at least ever other day, but they each had their own tasks.

The one she seemed to end up working with the most, spending the majority of her free time with and who happened to have his new office located within walking distance to her apartment was the demon chatting to her on the phone.

“I’ll try and stick it out a bit longer…” Eleanor says, wanting to tease him a little, knowing full well he’d prefer to get her to come to him rather than be dragged out to a seedy bar and out of his comfort zone; “Vicky might turn up and I don’t want it to seem like I’m the one who ditched her.”

Another demon she never imagined in the past she could call a friend but, when she wasn’t boasting about her acting process, she was actually a good laugh to be around. And it wasn’t as if they hadn’t known each other for a very long time, even if most of that had been as enemies…the same had once been true for Michael and look at where there relationship was now. Was it naïve of Eleanor to hope that every demon had it in them to change? To become someone she could call a close buddy?

It might just be that Michael is one of a kind, of course, but she’s ready to give others like him a chance.

“Well, try to have a good night and you know where I am. Hey, I dare you to try a glass of pig urine.”

“Ugh, no way!” She physically shudders, seeing the dark-eyed demon across the room copy her grin, as if it had been for her.

“Coward. Trust me, it’s not that bad, mix it with some coconut rum and you’ll be ready to hit the dancefloor.” He tells her; “I’ll agree to go out with you next time your desperate for a date, if you agree to have a drink.”

“I am not desperate for a date, thank you!” Eleanor retorts back; “In fact…I got someone eying me up right this moment.” She raises her eyebrow at the demon, who winks back.

“…Are you trying to make me jealous?” Michael asks.

“Depends if it’s working.”

The signals she’s flashing like a red light on her forehead to match her dress might seem as though they were directed at the demon across the room, but Eleanor knows they’re truly for her silver-haired bud at the other end of the phone. Maybe it’s been a long time since she had any action in that department and she’s lonely, or maybe she’s felt a little envious whenever looking like a sad singleton beside the other two couples in her group (and Tahani sadly not playing for the other team for anything spicy to develop there).

Or maybe she’s tired of her and Michael settling for this quasi-platonic, flirtatious teasing that they’ve been tossing back and forth for decades now and wants _something_ to become of it before she goes insane.

“It’s not.” Michael claims.

Liar, liar.

“You tell yourself that. Have fun with your paperwork, Mikey boy.” She taunts him, gently; “I’ll see you later…Maybe.”

She hangs up before he can respond. He should be used to her having the last word by now.

Eleanor does her best to play it cool and not look at the demon who is still obviously eyeing her up as she places the two pieces awkwardly back on the phone set. She won’t go dragging her feet to Michael’s just yet. She won’t fold so easily.

C’mon, Shellstrop. Get back in the game. Knock back a few Jagers, be a one woman mosh-pit for at least three songs, then she can at least say the night wasn’t a complete loss.

And even then, once she’s thrown in the towel, she’ll go back to her own apartment.

Only then will she call Michael and give him permission to come round so they can smoosh up all cosy on her large sofa and watch a trashy movie together, her shrimp dispenser within arms-reach for instant refills.

As she goes back into the main bar, the demon with his eye on her moves close and holds the door open for her, standing tall in his black suit, his cologne causing her to wobble a bit.

The smell reminds her of a church where she once took a priest’s virginity in a confession booth…

Sin and shameless pleasure rolled into one intoxicating aroma.

“Hey…You’re one of the humans right?” He asks her, towering over her frame, his eyes scanning over her little red dress in a way that makes her feel the need to touch it as if to check it’s still on her, “Eleanor, is it?”

She nods. Something in her is screaming at her to remain silent. And yet she can’t help but answer.

“That’s right. You got a normal name or one of these long-ass demon names?” Such as Spiders Live In His Anus or She Who Drinks Fear And Chardonnay.

Dark Eyes flashes her a smile.

“I’m Scott. Me and some friends of mine have been really keen to get to meet you. How about I buy you a drink?”

There is no actual exchange of money or economy in this place but Eleanor appreciates the gesture. Perhaps there was still a chance to turn this night around into something interesting before she gives up and chooses a night in. It may be due to what she’s already drunk, or something in this new Bad Place employees aura that affects her, but she feels the sharp corners of her mind begin to turn dull and slow. There’s a voice in her head telling her this is a bad idea and yet it gets more and more distant and quiet with each passing second as she follows Scott back to the bar.

Come on! Sharing a drink with a strikingly charming demon in one of Hell’s very own nightclubs….

What’s the worst that could happen?

*

There’s no sunlight in the Bad Place, not unless you happen to be in a neighbourhood with a day and night feature installed. The sky outside is permanently overcast, fog forever creeping through the streets, pierced and lit up only by the flickering street lamps. To walk down one always gives the sensation of waiting for Jack the Ripper to grab you from behind and slice your throat.

Michael isn’t sure how much time passes from Eleanor’s last call until the phone starts ringing again. Given that he’s almost finished his ten foot pile of paperwork (thanks Shawn) dealing with issues surrounding the new tests, he figures a whole ‘night’ may have flown by without him noticing. He’d been half-expecting Eleanor to either turn up and make her way in, never knocking or needing a key, the door coded to always allow her entry as always. When two hours went by, Michael assumed she had either stayed at this bar and was enjoying herself or she’d gone home alone.

He doesn’t feel the need to worry. Not like he once had. It’s been a quarter of a Bearimy since their experiment won, since they convinced the Judge to reform the system and started their new jobs of fixing this place up for humans to improve rather than be mercilessly tortured. He knew they wouldn’t be fully welcome here and Michael was used to the odd spit ball shot at him or a Retire Me sign stuck to his back by now. What mattered most was that the humans were safe. Shawn had ordered for no demon to harm them but he hadn’t expected that to be enough. Not all demons had been so keen to follow the Boss’ rules as he’d once been.

But despite the occasional curse or dirt look thrown their way, his friends had so far been treated as Shawn commanded. He knew of them had even made friends, something which had irked Michael at first, to his shame. They were his humans first, after all. He wasn’t entirely certain if it was feeling jealous at the thought of them getting more close with other demons and growing distant from him, or simply afraid that the demons weren’t as friendly as they pretended to be.

Until today, there had been no reason for his worry. It was a strange new life they all had down here, a word of difference to what they had in the old neighbourhoods of his, and even more different than what Michael’s original existence in the Bad Place had been…But it was a living, of sorts.

He still got to work with and see all his friends often and knew that they were getting closer, day by day, to finally going to the Good Place. That was all that mattered to him.

And, best of all, his fear of no longer being as close to Eleanor after their time together ruling Fake Heaven was over had been for nothing. They might not work together daily as they once had, but that spark is strong as ever, she’s constantly invading his office to help him out or he’s crashing at her place, as it’s not like he really has a ‘home’ of his own so, as she puts it, why not borrow hers when he likes? It might be why he doesn’t simply design and build his own apartment around the office…without it, he has more of an excuse to go to her.

The phone rings on his desk. Ah. That will be her, either calling to share the agonising details of her hangover, or maybe she’s only now heading home and wants him to help walk her back.

He wonders which it will be, smirking as he answers.

“Hello?” Ready to call it quits, Eleanor?

There’s no answer at first.

“…Anyone there? Hel-lo!”

More silence. Then, just faintly, he picks up a heavy breathing.

Michael sighs; “Shawn, is that you? Or Gunner or Val? Any of you dweebs with nothing better to do?”

No one takes the credit. This is one of the more lazy crank calls he’s had. Just short and sharp breaths that are no were near as amusing as the Little Girl from Ring’s voice or the impression of the Scream serial killer.

“Okay, very funny, guys, I’m hanging up now, goodnight-!”

“Michael…”

He stills, hearing the very tiny, croaky voice in the split second before he was about to lower the receiver. He frowns and puts it back to his ear.

“…Eleanor? Is that you?” He knows it’s her voice and yet it doesn’t sound like _her_. Not at all.

More severe breathing cut between a high-pitched sob.

“…Where are you?” He asks, lowering his tone.

She sniffs; “I’m…M’still at the bar…” She sounds small. Quiet.

Everything that, despite her height, is very much not Eleanor.

“Are you okay?” He suspects he already knows the answer or else he wouldn’t feel the need to ask; “…Are you safe?”

He feels his chest tighten with worry when she takes another pause.

“I dunno.”

Fuck.

“I’ll be there as quick as I can.” He hangs up, wishing for the first time that demons were allowed cell-phones in this accursed place.

He almost asks for Janet before remembering she’s out of range, two sectors away with Jason at her side. Not that she has the full limitless range of her powers as she would have if this were one of his neighbourhoods. It’s shared along a network with all the Bad Janets, none of which are as willing to see to a demon or humans desires more than to cruelly make fun of them or gift them with a long, drawn out fart in place of their actual requests. He doesn’t trust one to go find her ahead of him and protect her from…whatever has happened to make her sound like a tiny, frightened child on the phone.

Michael has no choice but to run as fast as he can and grab a trolley headed to this ‘Jezebel’s’.

There’s few other demons in the cart with him on the journey and none that are keen to talk to him, which he’s content with, just wanting to get across the city as quick as possible. He keeps his head down, tapping his fingers impatiently on his thigh as he tries to reason with his own rising panic.

Most likely she had too much to drink. She feels too ill to go home alone and doesn’t trust one of the random demons in the place to take her back.

Maybe one of them just said something really…really mean.

_You know your Eleanor. When has she never been able to give as good as she got?_

_When has she ever been afraid?_

When it’s too much for one human, even one with as much as steel in her stomach like Eleanor Shellstrop, to handle. She’d been fortunate enough so far that her worst enemies had been a cowardly, handsome traitor and a Satanic overlord who was more concerned with getting back at Michael than caring less about her or their friends. There were far worse hauntings and horrors the Bad Place had to offer that, until now, they’d been able to avoid.

The tram gets to his stop and as soon as Michael steps onto the pavement, he smells it.

Fire.

Oh crap.

He lets his nose guide him, leading him to push past some demons on their way to orientation or wherever, deaf to their swear words thrown at the back of his head as he runs.

It could mean nothing, he tells himself some more. Maybe this club has its own fire pit, that would be a natural feature for any party in this place, like a chocolate fountain at a sweet sixteen. Only any fountain here would most likely be blood or the urine of terrified victims before chocolate.

_Oh shit, if there’s a fire in Hell then the kindling is usually made up of…_

Michael quickens his pace until he rounds the corner and spots the dank looking bar on the corner, the name lit up in red and blue neon letters, a few of them busted and hanging over the threshold as smoke pours out the doorway. He can’t see the flames but he can hear them crackling away inside. There’s no phone-box along the street, meaning if Eleanor called him then she would have most likely used the one inside.

“Eleanor!” He shouts, no longer holding back his emotions.

This isn’t what he feared. It’s worse. Much worse. And he still has no idea what it is, which is what makes it all the more terrifying.

He runs towards the entrance, ready to attempt to summon some sort of shield to fight against the flames to make his way in. His powers, much like Janet’s, are not was infinite as they would be in his own created realm but he’s not totally impotent. For example, if any one of these demons who are not on this weirdly abandoned street have laid a finger on Eleanor, he’ll be happy to turn them inside out and cut them into little pieces to feed to the local spider-dogs.

Waving his hand to create a wet breeze, he manages to clear a path through the blazing building, walls coated with flames, as he quickly douses them and makes his way in.

Where the fuck are the bar staff? The demon customers?

He spots the phone on the wall with the receiver hanging limp off the base.

“ELEANOR!” He tries calling again, putting out more flames with more desperate gestures, ignoring his own skin suit getting singed, it doesn’t matter, none of it does; “ELEANOR!”

The fire in the main bar is where its most intense, almost consuming every inch of the room.

Michael focuses all his strength into pushing his palms out and causing an invisible sprinkler system to appear above, sending a shower pouring quickly down and reducing the flames, shrinking them down and clearing out the charred, gutted husk of a nightclub. He feels it. The lingering presence of some very strong and very ancient kind of magic. Something neither demon nor Janet. It’s hot and simmering through the air, between the falling drops of water, scorch marks of whatever the fuck happened here before Michael arrived to see the state of what remains.

And there, in the middle of the dancefloor, he spots her at last.

Eleanor, sat on the ground, her arms wrapped tight around the kneels curled up to her front, her dress thankfully the only part of her consumed by the fire. The stifled sobs and breathing that had reached him through the phone line before is now echoing throughout the deserted space. He sees her shaking, shoulders hunched forward, arms free of burns but instead decorated with scars and deep, angry bruises. Michael’s hands shake, his trembling in sync with those of his closest friend.

He takes a step. Then another.

“…Eleanor?” Soft, this time. Careful. Very careful.

She raises her head with a whimper. Her swollen lips part, wordlessly, while her glazed eyes stare out as though they are looking straight through him. He stumbles back at what his eyes take in.

Of all the wounds she’s gathered, the one thing that chills Michael to his core, is her aura.

It’s gone. There’s nothing for him to see anymore.


	2. Friendly Warnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael has to help patch up Eleanor the old fashioned way. TW: drink-spiking, signs of torture

With a wave of his hand, the sprinkler system halts once most of the fire is out. Michael’s shoes squelch on the damp, burned floor as he moves closer to Eleanor.

“What happened?”

Her head bows at his sharp question, her arms constricting tight around her knees again.

“Jeez, Eleanor! What the fuck-.”

 _Cut it out, you dick! Look at her!_ The voice in his head gives him a good slap when the woman’s shoulders begin to tremble, dangerously, again. This isn’t the time for him to be asking these things. For once he’s going to have to settle with the agony of not knowing squat for a while longer. It’s not his priority, not while the real one is curled up in a foetal position before him, injured and terrified. He steadies his breathing, trying not to panic at how…unsettling it is to no longer see the swirling colors around her he’s so used to being there. There’s not even a shimmer of grey. It’s like finding her without a head. It’s just…wrong.

It doesn’t make sense. None of this does. How was she just sitting here in the middle of that fire? How is she not caked in third or fourth degree burns on top of all the other wounds that are visible on her?

So many fresh scars, bruises and welts…

Fuck, why is he just standing there, damn it?!

Michael steels himself and gets down on his knees before her.

“Eleanor.” He lowers his voice, slowly reaching his fingers to hover before her head; “It’s okay. It’s all gonna be okay. Just stay very still, I’m gonna fix everything…”

He snaps his fingers.

Her scars should be closing. The blood should retreat back inside her. The welts and bruises should fade out to her healthy, smooth, vanilla skin. She should be all better.

And yet, Michael frowns, there’s nothing.

He snaps again and Eleanor cringes at the noise, shuffling back a little, keeping her face down and whimpering in fear.

Why isn’t it working?! First he can’t see her aura, now his healing powers are gone?!

“Something’s blocking me. It might be a poor reception here.” He explains aloud, trying not to freak out; “….Maybe we need to get you home first.” His powers seemed to have better range in the humans apartments he’d been permitted to design. It may be that they ran on a connection to his Janet that gave his magic a boost to do as he willed for them, whereas everything is a little more restricted on the streets of Hell. And he doesn’t know this bar’s WiFi password.

Eleanor’s head begins to poke up, her eyes darting to Michael’s fingers, then to his eyes. His essence cracks at the lost face gazing mournfully at him. Is she thinking how he’s failed her?

_Again?_

Michael looks at the state of her dress. The fire…or perhaps something else, something he’s not ready to entertain in his imagination…has torn most of it from her body, taking a shred of his metaphorical heart with it. He always loved her in that dress, one of the most heart-wrenching memories he held in his infinite brain happened to be when she was wearing that very same dress, and now it’s hanging on by literal threads, seeming more a costume from on the set of _1,000,000 BC_. The last pieces of fabric stick to her shivering skin after the brief downpour.

He takes off his jacket and holds it in his hands. It’s also wet…but…

He tries snapping his fingers again, this time instantly drying it, clean and warm as if fresh from the dryer. Now why the fuck was he able to do that but not heal her?

Never mind, he’ll figure it out later.

He needs to get Eleanor home. Get her safe.

“Here you go.” He carefully places it around her shoulders, watching her frown as he puts it around her, as if confused as to what is happening.

He can’t read her colors anymore, but he feels the faint vibrations of her blood pressure, the closer his hands are.

_She’s in shock, damn it._

“Hey…” He gently touches her face; “Hey, Eleanor? Look at me. It’s gonna be all right. Whatever happened…It’s over now. I promise.”

A crease appears on her brow.

“M…Michael?”

Has she only just recognised him? He tries to force a smile.

“Yeah, slow-poke. It’s me.”

One of her bloody hands hovers upward, fingers trembling beneath his chin.

“Are…Are you real?”

“Well I hope I’m real enough,” He whispers, brushing his fingers against hers, “…Why?”

“I…I was calling for you…I kept scre….How did you know…?”

“You phoned me, remember?”

“No…I don’t…Did I…?” She holds her hands out in front of her, looking appalled at the scrapes and gashes on her fingers, “…I don’t…I don’t remember what…Oh fuck…”

The phone was hanging off the hook so she must have. But then why come back inside the bar and sit amongst the flames? The more Michael tries to piece it together, the worse his angry headache becomes. Just focus, Mikey. Get her out.

Get her up.

“Don’t worry about that now.” He whispers to her, carefully putting his hands to her arms, “Can you stand up?”

She tries to move one of her legs, wincing slightly at the motion, before nodding.

Michael holds her hands, cradling them in his own like an injured bird’s wing, helping to raise her back to her feet. His jacket provides her with very little covering, even as she wraps it tight around her, leaving little to the imagination.

He lets her lean into his side, one arm around her shoulders, as he takes her out of the burned building. Her steps are slow, knees buckling as she moves on bare feet. He pauses when they reach the exit and he snaps a pair of fur-lined boots into his hands, kneeling down before her.

“Lift?” He asks her, Eleanor placing her hand on his shoulder to balance, raising her foot so Michael can slip it on. Then the other.

He can already see the cuts on her soles. As if she’s been forced to walk across enough broken glass for one night.

“Let’s go.” He offers his arm, which she slips her hands around, clinging on tight as they walk down the street.

There’s few other demons on making their way along the pavements. Whenever someone passes, whether in a human skin suit or ‘naked’ in their true form, Eleanor’s grip on his arm gets that little bit tighter, huddling close into Michael’s side and keeping her head down. A giant walking Venus Flytrap demon, called Benji, casually throws Michael a good morning. He nods back, reaching up his hand to pat Eleanor’s fingers clenching around his sleeve.

He’s never seen her like this, small and frightened, jumping at every presence that comes near them. Taking the trolley home doesn’t seem like such a great idea, as Michael images what she’d be like on a carriage with a bunch of demons seeing her in this state.

Lucky enough, a hansom pulled by a skeletal horse comes trotting down the road. Michael holds his arm out, relieved to see that it’s free for hire.

“Bloody Mary’s Lane, please,” He requests of the driver in his overly large black robes that hide his face, “As quick as you can.”

The driver utters an eerie groan which Michael translates as ‘Sure thing, my good fellow!’ while he helps lift Eleanor into the carriage and close the door, giving them a moment of privacy as they move on, their ride a little juddery from the crooked wheels rolling along the cobbles. At least Eleanor can sit down and rest her sore feet.

With the outside world shut out, Michael hears how short and haggard her breathing is. He looks at her, turtling herself in his jacket as if wanting to disappear. She looks more like Chidi that time Michael forced him to choose between rescuing a puppy from a fire or letting every philosophical book in history burn (that had been too cruel even for the demon to watch at that point and Michael had reset before Eleanor could say the words). He tries to put a hand on her back, wanting to help her breath while showing his support.

“Just relax. Nothing can get to you he-.”

When Michael’s palm presses between her shoulder blades, she yelps and shuffles to the other side of the cab, pressing herself to the wall.

Fuck! What did he do?

“Sorry! I’m so sorry…Did I hurt you?” He asks, fearfully; “I didn’t mean to…You know that, right?”

Eleanor looks over to him, her lip wobbling, a few stray tears rolling down again.

She reaches her hand back out and Michael takes it. He pats it carefully, trying once again to magic away the scars and the blood, to no avail. He studies her flesh, hating that all he sees is skin and meat, but no light. No colors, no shimmers or sparkles or little dots…Nothing.

He holds the broken hand carefully between his own, looking across at Eleanor.

She wants to come close. He can see it. She wants to be near him but…

“I really need to know what happened.” He tells her, forcing her to look down at her lap again; “You don’t need to tell me everything, just…I need you to know if whoever did this…put some sort of spell on you? Did they use a Bad Janet?”

She doesn’t answer, shoulders trembling again.

“Eleanor…For some reason, I can’t heal you with magic. Something is cutting me off from reaching you. If I know what they did then I can figure out how to undo it and then we can get rid of it and I can make it better. I can make it all go away.”

Eleanor curls her other hand between her legs.

“…C-can’t make this go away, bud.”

What does she mean by that?

They’ve faced so many big and scary things in the past and always managed to either get rid of them or run away or change them into less scary things. There’s nothing they can’t do…when they try. She knows that. Michael’s never seen her look so hopeless.

“Is there anything you can tell me?” He asks again.

She shakes her head; “…P-please don’t…I…I can’t…”

Okay.

She either doesn’t know or she can’t say. Michael doesn’t dare push her, no matter what the case. He can already feel her hand quivering uncertainly, as if not sure if she wants to pull that way, or keep letting him hold her as best as he can.

“Maybe we should go to HQ. One of the Bad Janets there might know-.”

“No.” Eleanor cuts him off.

He blinks; “Shawn has promised that nothing-.”

“NO!”

Michael lets go of her hand, expecting her to move away again.

Instead, she does the opposite. A sob follows her shout and she turns to curl towards him again, reaching to put her arms around him, pressing as close into his torso as she can.

“I just wanna go home…J-just take me home, Michael, please…”

When has Eleanor ever begged him for anything?

He sighs and carefully places his hands on her head and shoulder, trying to find the areas where he can’t spot any raw wounds. He’s never been able to deny her requests since he truly befriended her. He’s not going to start now, even if all sense in his head is saying that a Bad Janet or even a trip to the Judge would make the most sense and be the fastest way to find out what the fuck is going on. The Judge’s powers would remove whatever barrier is stopping Michael from healing her up, or the omnipotent binge-watcher could just restore Eleanor herself. Either way, it would be the best choice of destination.

But Eleanor’s tired. He can feel that in the weight of her head against his.

He gently caresses her damp, tangled hair; “Home it is. Try and stay awake a bit longer.”

Just in case she’s concussed, he thinks as he feels a lump on her scalp.

-

She doesn’t remember how she got from the foyer to the bar but there she is.

The demon with the dark eyes, chiselled jaw and soul-stealing eyes smiles beside her.

“What are you drinking?” He asks her.

“Anything but pig urine.” All the rum in the Universe isn’t going to make that appealing for her.

Scott, she thinks that’s what he said his name was, taps the surface to get the Bad Janet barkeeps attention.

“One margarita and one pint of nostalgia.” He orders up.

Immortals have the weirdest tastes; “Could I try a sip of that or will it turn me inside out?”

“It might turn you into a zygote so best not, gorgeous.” He gives her a wink.

The Bad Janet slides them their drinks, along with a complimentary vulgar insult that washes over Eleanor at this point. She’d be more worried if a Bad Janet did anything when asked without following it up with a sneer.

The handsome demon takes a swig of what looks like fizzy blue steam to Eleanor, while she sips her cocktail glass.

“What’s got you thirst for nostalgia then?” Literally.

His finger circles the rim of his glass as his lips form a half-smirk.

“What’s the expression? The lava pits are always warmer on the other side of the cave?”

“If you say so, man.” Eleanor doesn’t bother with the human version.

“I think a lot of us are feeling nostalgic lately. Missing the good old days. It’s not easy, getting used to this new system. Change is difficult.”

This isn’t the smooth-talking fun bar-seduction she had been expecting from the moment he winked at her in the foyer. The hairs on Eleanor’s arm raise up.

“Yeah, I get that a lot…But most seem to be coming around. I mean if Shawn agrees-.”

“Shawn doesn’t speak for every demon. He’s too old, been in the job for too long. He got bored sitting on his big chair and just wants to freshen things up. Those of us still hard at work, grinding down at the bottom, keeping this machine going? We’re used to what we know…We like it.”

Eleanor inches back a little, no longer in the mood for her drink.

“Too bad. The humans happened not to like all the fingernail pulling, with damn good reason. Now thing’s are changing and if you have any problems with that, get a meeting with the man in charge.”

Scott puts his hand down on her wrist.

“I happen to have that meeting right here.”

Eleanor tries not to shiver. Can’t show weakness in front of these guys. She looks up to meet Scott’s eyes again, finding his face is starting to blur a little. Fuck. She glances at her margarita. All she took was one sip.

He smiles and holds up a tiny, empty vial.

“Works pretty quick this stuff, huh.”

“What did…” Her tongue feels heavy and lazy in her mouth. Crap, how stupid is she?! She summons all her strength to pull her hand away; “Ba’ Janet!”

She looks to see there’s no one behind the bar except a demon wearing a red-haired woman’s skin suit. She holds up a marble between her fingers.

“I’m afraid she’s on her break.” The demon grins.

There’s more laughter around her now. Eleanor looks to see the eighteen or twenty, it’s hard to count with how the room spins, other demons in the club all with their eyes on her. There’s no sign of her escort, of Vicky, but even with the drug coursing through her veins, Eleanor knows a trap when she sees one, much more when it snaps shut around her ankles.

For the first time since she came to the real Bad Place, she feels the terror of knowing she’s nothing but one human surrounded by a city of walking nightmares. And, right now, she’s alone.

“Let me go. Whatever you’ve got planned, you don’t wanna do this…Shawn promised the Judge we wouldn’t be hurt…” She warns Scott in a low voice.

“Who said anything about hurting you? We just wanna have some fun, isn’t that what you wanted too, Eleanor?” His smile widens, a ravaging wolf staring down little red riding trash.

She hears the laughter ripple around her again. Fuck this!

Eleanor pulls her hand out of his grip and quickly makes a run for the door. That’s the last time she lets her guard down by a sexy smouldering gaze. A couple of taller demons, one in the skin suit of a buff bouncer, the other a giant lizard-man, stand in her way.

“Oh, let her go! One human isn’t worth our time. I think she’s got the message.” Scott hollers from the bar.

Yes. She gets it. There are many demons not happy with the changes. And they blame the humans.

“I’ll be sure to let your boss know.” She’s not one for snitching but this doesn’t count. It’s a warning shot, clearly. A threat to scare her and…

Damn, it worked. Eleanor does her best not to shake in her heels as the two demons part and let her leave.

She strides back into the foyer and grabs the phone.

To Here with her pride. She prepares to press the redial button so she can call Michael and tell him to get his as-

A hand clamps around her mouth.

“On second thought, cutie...”

Eleanor’s scream is muffled as she’s yanked back through the doors, the phone left hanging limp and undialed off the base.

-

He’s never needed a key to her apartment. The door is coded to open at the touch of those Eleanor has allowed permission; including all of her friends and, for whatever reason, the demon mailman who is also a centaur.

With Eleanor still huddled at his side in his jacket and the remains of her dress, he turns the lights on, glad to see that everything her place still responds to the wave of his hands.

“Right. Take a seat.” He guides her over to her couch; “I’m gonna have to take a look at these wounds to fix them up the old-fashioned way. How hard can it be?”

He waits for a dig from his friend about he’s never trained as a human doctor so how can he have any idea what the fuck he’s supposed to do. Eleanor just remains silent as she sits down.

Michael waves his hand to summon a bowl of warm water and a flannel. He knows he’s not going to be able to tell what he needs to fix until he’s cleaned most of this dried blood off of her.

“I need you to give me back my jacket,” he tells her, “It’s warm enough in here, yeah?”

That doesn’t seem to be the reason she’s preferring to stay wrapped beneath the dark blazer.

“You…you don’t have to do…” She’s not one to like being taken care of or appear vulnerable, he knows this. But even she doesn’t have the energy right now to kick up much of a fuss; “…M’just tired.”

“I know.” He reassures; “Quicker I get this done, quicker we can get you to bed, okay?”

With a reluctant sigh, she nods, before slipping the jacket off her shoulders.

Michael bites the inside of his lip as he gets a clearer look at the state of her body once the covering is gone and she’s sat before him with very little covered up by the shreds of red polyester. He can see the patterns of intends and punctured skin. Claw marks. Fuck. His mind pieces together what sort of being and how they would have grabbed her. He takes in the bruises, the knowledge in his internal library making him all too aware how much force it would have taken to create such a dark, ugly mark on her beautiful skin.

“Can you tell me if anything feels…broken? Or what hurts the most?” He asks.

She shakes her head again; “Don’t think so…Just…” she gestures to her front, beneath her breast; “…H-hurts a lot. Think it…c-cracked.”

A rib. Great. Those are the most annoyingly fragile and difficult things in the stupid human bodies.

He doubts it’s more than a crack or a bruise, considering she’s not making too much fuss about it.

Michael takes her hand, holding her fingertips carefully between his own, while his other begins to slowly wash her arm up with the soaked flannel. He says nothing to the reddish indent around her wrist that looks to be from a very tight piece of leather.

“Warm enough?”

Eleanor nods, tired eyelids fluttering; “…S’nice.”

He looks up, sharing the smallest smile with her before her face drops again.

Michael tries to be as quick as he can, while also working cautiously around her worst wounds, watching the water slide down her skin as he cleans her up and she sits far too still, no doubt wanting him to get on with it.

“I’ll be sure to clean your couch afterwards.” He tells her, lightly, standing up and moving to do her back.

Eleanor shifts around, as if trying to hide it from his line of sight.

“C’mon. We’re almost done.”

She recoils, beginning to tremble again, like a little mouse caught in the corner by the housecat.

“Eleanor…I need you to turn around. Please.”

His friend shudders, looking at him as though he’s as much a threat as the bastards who did this.

“I…I don’t want you to…”

“Does it hurt?”

She nods.

Michael looks apologetic; “Then I’ve gotta take a look to fix it. I’m sorry.”

Eleanor closes her eyes and shuffles, turning to face the other way, her back covered in a gross mess of fifty plus lashed all the way from the base of her neck to the small above her waist. Michael almost drops the flannel on the floor. To think he had thought her front looked bad enough. His stomach heaves a little when he recalls how he’d tried rubbing her back.

No wonder she had reacted as she did.

“Oh, fuck…”

He hears her sniff; “…E-Even I can’t pull this off, huh.”

Oh, Eleanor.

Even trying her best to lighten the mood, to play it off, her voice is all too cracked and weak. He’s extra careful to wash over the many, many, many scars that have been seemingly whipped onto her throughout the past several hours. At least, with her back to him, he doesn’t have to worry so much about hiding the pain on his face or the tears in his eyes as he’s unable to resist counting each awful lash on her back.

_My dear Eleanor, what have they done to you?_

He adds it together with the marks on her wrists. There’s no way she wouldn’t have taken this abuse without a good struggle, meaning they bound her up tight, and even then…Oh, fuck. He knows just what to picture because, damn it, he used to do the same thing not too many centuries ago. He can hear the crack of the whip against his ear, the sound of a human’s shriek as their flesh is torn.

She cringes a little harder as he cleans those as delicately as possible. Human backs were the most ridiculous parts of their body, so much complicated muscle and tissue, and yet the stupid doctors spend way too much time studying the front when they should really be trying to figure out the other side more. He feels so weak and powerless, wishing he could just remove it all with a simple snap of his fingers.

“We need to clean these before we can bandage them…You know what that means?” He asks her.

“Y-yeah…M’not braindead.” She weakly retorts. She’s had experience with fending for herself growing up to know how to treat her own wounds.

He summons some analgesic tablets and offers one to her.

“That’s the best I can do to ease the pain.” He hands her a glass of water too, which he’s now kicking himself for not giving her earlier when he realised she was in shock.

Once she’s slid the pill between her lips and downed her water, she holds onto Michael’s jacket, clutching it tight to her front while he douses clean rag with some antiseptic.

Her whimpers as he disinfects the wounds are pitiful and muffled she bites into the fabric of his jacket. Fair enough. He’s got an endless supply of them, it’s fine. He tries to be as quick as he can with her back before sliding around and kneeling in front of her to dab the wounds on her knees. Friction burns. Michael sets his jaw as he tries not to think about them too hard, working his way up. He has to guide her hands to move the jacket aside to get to her front and her arms, before he’s embarrassed to come to a realisation.

“…Would you rather do these ones yourself?” He asks, biting his lip.

She shakes her head. It’s as if she doesn’t have a care for seeming dependent on someone else while it’s just the two of them there.

Michael sits on the sofa to finish up with placing one finger to her cheek, beckoning her to look at him, before he cleans the open cut above her eye.

There’s more whimpers, more snivels, and he wants nothing more than to wrap her up tight. He would do if it wouldn’t press against every raw wound decorating her smaller body.

“There we go.” He tells her, “That’s all of them.”

It seems to take just as long to bandage the worst ones and cover the other with gauzes. He’s grateful to whatever powers that be that he’s able to summon all this equipment at will, almost as a balance for needing it in the first place. Humans take so much effort to put back together when they’re broken, he never truly realised it before, and to think they add to extra pain of health insurance payments. To think that Hell has free healthcare before America; that sounds about right.

Eleanor blinks and reaches to touch the gauze Michael put over her eye before looking at the others on her arms and legs.

“Am I…hotter than the other mummies here?” She tries to joke, her still swollen lip wobbling again.

“We don’t have those but, if we did, there’d be no contest.” Michael tells her.

Eleanor attempts a smile before her true emotions break through again as if she were attempting to put up a dam to keep them back. She shivers a little, half-covered hands wrapping around herself.

Michael goes to her chest of drawers and finds the comfiest pyjama set he can.

“Here…” He hands them to her and she’s able to dress herself, with a little bit of help from him so she doesn’t nudge the bandages, helping her to tug her t-shirt down.

She slides her feet into the slippers he put down for her, giving him a weak smile.

“Th-thanks…”

“Any time,” he says, his stomach clenching with the guilt of not having been there to stop…whatever the fuck is the reason for this. He curses himself for not following her damn invite.

He can’t help but blame himself. He wishes she would too.

“Can I get you anything else?”

She sniffs again; “…Got any of those skin-suits spare? This one kinda sucks right now…”

“I’m afraid they can only be used by immortal beings.” He tells her, moving his hand over a safe spot on her wrist; “I think I’d miss this one of yours too much as well…Scars and all.”

“Heh…”

He can see she’s too exhausted to laugh with him, no matter how much she wants to. Her head is already lolling forward. She’s had to keep herself awake more than she wanted to already for the almost hour it took for Michael to finish patching her up. Tears are leaking from her eyes, which he hopes are more from being tired than whatever she’s been through. But if she needs to cry…

He reaches a hand up to brush his knuckles on her chin to catch a few spare droplets.

A tiny sob is released against his hand.

“Eleanor…Is there anything you can tell me? Anything at all?” He has to know something, it’s eating him from the inside not to know; “The ones who did this…If they’re not caught then they might try to do this again and I won’t let that happen…”

She purses her lip and meets his eyes.

“…They won’t be coming back. N-not for a while…” She says, almost too certain.

“….How do you know?”

She glances down at her hands.

“…I s-saw them explode. Like Glenn. Like you were gonna…that fucking night…” She keens slightly, fingers gripping Michael’s tight for a moment.

He tries his best not to let his thoughts dwell on that night, one of the worst of his existence, which was saying a Here of a lot.

“How….?” He asks, confused as much as before. Did someone have another exploder gun on them?

She rubs at her elbow; “Does it matter?”

It does, really. If it wasn’t Eleanor who exploded whatever demon did this then it means someone else was witness to it and they could fill in the details where Eleanor isn’t ready too yet. He really doesn’t like having so few answers to vital questions.

But he can see that she’s about to crumble into his arms. So little energy left.

“C’mon. You’ve proven yourself enough of a trooper for one night.” He says, helping her to her feet; “To bed?”

She nods, the tears leaking now at least smelling of gratitude, even if there are no colors to match. He can’t even feel or taste the energy of emotions that should be around her now. Everything about her is now purely physical. The posters of mailmen on her wall have more of an aura than she does right now.

Perhaps it’s the shock. Maybe she’s doing a much too fine a job of bottling up her emotions, even if she can’t quite hold back the tears and whimpers of agony. Michael hopes that when she wakes the next morning, that little glow of yellow will be rising above her brow again.

“Sleep as much as you need.” He tells her after following her to her bedroom, lingering at the door; “I’m going to try to contact our Janet.”

Eleanor pauses and gives him a worried look.

“She has to know. Even if the demons who did this to you are goo…There might be others? Do you think?”

Her eyes widen, as she hadn’t seemed to think of that before. The idea that she might not be the only target. Perhaps a group in each sector has their eye on the nearest human to kidnap, beat and…more which Michael isn’t ready to face.

She nods, starting to shake again, her chest rising all too sharp.

“They can’t be the only ones…They’re not…” Her voices pitches again; “Michael, you gotta tell them...!”

“It’s okay, I will!” He moves in close and touches her hair; “We’ll make sure they’re safe. You just rest, all right?” Michael raises the duvet for her to slide in.

He watches how she has to lay on her side, awkwardly trying to comfy on her damaged skin. As exhausted as she is, he can hear the worry making her heart beat far quicker than she needs it too right now, the adrenaline pushing her to keep awake. He used to have the power to help humans feel chilled out and peaceful – it was the ambience present in his waiting room whenever one of them first woke up after death, stopping them from freaking out.

The best he can do is summon and light a couple of lavender scented candles on her bedside table.

“Close your eyes. I’m gonna call Janet, tell her to make sure her and Jason stay safe. And then Chidi and Simone. No one can enter your guy’s apartments unwanted, I made sure of that.” He assures her, petting her hair as she lays it on the pillow.

“T-Tahani?”

“Hopefully, she’s also safe inside, I’ll check on her first.” He wants to call Janet with help to find out why Eleanor is suddenly immune to magic; “I take it you don’t want me to tell them what…?”

Eleanor cringes, curling up beneath the covers.

“Just say I was attacked. They don’t need details.” Not that she’s even been that descriptive with Michael. He’s seen enough to let his imagination piece things together.

And there’s still far too many blanks.

“I’m sorry.” He tells her, “I’m sorry I didn’t…”

She rolls over to face her back wall.

Shit.

Michael stands up, understanding if she’s not ready to forgive him about that yet. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forgive himself. He’s at the doorway when she speaks.

“Don’t leave.” She says, still facing away.

“I won’t.” He wouldn’t dream of it.

“K-keep the door open so I know…”

He leaves it ajar, allowing a stream of light from her hallway to fall into her otherwise pitch-black room. Normally he would be able to see the dimming white around her as she began to drift off, as he has many a slumber party. Now there’s nothing but the dark and the faint outline of her trembling frame huddled beneath the duvet.


End file.
